


battlefield of blood;

by bloodynargles



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Chantry Bashing, Chantry Issues, Chantry critical, Character Death, Darkspawn, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grey Warden Baby, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, In Character Critical, Noelle's Inner Monologue, Non-HOF Warden, Original Character Death(s), Past Character Death, The Calling, The Chantry, fuck loghain, its ok theyre all dead, theres alot of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodynargles/pseuds/bloodynargles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was something they'd spoken of on the eve of her joining ritual, his usually serious brown eyes falling prey to the fear that had coiled inside of his gut – he was scared, that he'd done the wrong thing, that he never should have brought her along. He had tried to give off an authority, but the fear of being a father that failed in his one duty to protect reigned strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mortality;

**Author's Note:**

> in reality, we dont know much about the coast of the free marches on the other side to ferelden SO there COULD be a storm coast over there. also. um. prepare.

The rain drips down her face, over the bridge of her nose and down to the rise and fall of her lips, the half a day old would on her shoulder has stopped bleeding, though her armour is caked with tacky blood. Her heartbeat rings in her ears but she can _hear_ it, feel it, the unrelenting churn of her stomach as she strikes from the darkness at twisted creatures, bones sticking from rotting flesh clad in the remnants of old chain mail. _She'd_ much rather be at home, or in Ferelden, by a warm fire with the heavy breaths of her father close by, the clinking of his armour a homely reminder that he was _there_ and _alive_. That she was alive.

 

But alas, she was on the Storm Coast, the opposite side to Ferelden's shores – to _home_ – seeking out the deprived creatures that Thedas seems to have forgotten about, the time passing between the last Blight making darkspawn seem like a child's nightmare, festered on by the demons that roam the fade. Ugly little stories that a father tells his child at night before the small one snuggles down to dream of a heroic adventure. _Her_ father, was probably all the way in Denerim by now, his last letter hinting at the sightings of darkspawn near the Korcari Wilds unsettling her, as if she knew where she was _meant_ to be, even if it was far from his side. Too far.

 

He never talked about it outright, not in his letters. She never knew what was truly going on wherever he was, her father liked to sugar coat things so she wouldn't abandon her patrols and rush head first into what he presumed was imminent danger. Especially not to rescue him. She knew that he could never forgive himself had he put her in danger and she'd died because of it. But that doesn't mean she wouldn't leave for Ferelden right this second to be at his side in battle – her heart seemed to fall and crumble at the thought of not getting there. Like the battle scarred, half rebuilt imperial highway she'd took an interest in studying one night, their small camp nestled in one of the structural arches underneath the actual road surface – purely for atmosphere, she'd concluded, later. The thought of him dying before she could ever say goodbye pained her more than she could ever admit. It was a Warden's duty to sacrifice, but Maker if she could pray and pray for a way to cure the calling, she's sure she would have done it by now.

 

It was something they'd spoken of on the eve of her joining ritual, his usually serious brown eyes falling prey to the fear that had coiled inside of his gut – he was _scared_ , that he'd done the wrong thing, that he never should have brought her along. He had tried to give off an authority, but the fear of being a father that _failed_ in his one duty to protect reigned strong. She couldn't think of it now. Didn't want to. Always a distraction from the lingering thought that one day the eyes that she had inherited would have nothing behind them, that no breath would pull from his chest and that she'd be _alone_. If she had the gall to admit her fears, then perhaps she would sleep better at night.

 

A snarl pulls her from her thoughts as she subconsciously pulls her dagger from her back, cold hands gracing the delicately carved handle and its a dance she doesn't care for, anymore, the once enjoyed steps of courting death now a burden heavier than her own fleeting mortality. The blade sinks into the creature's back and she pulls towards herself, making sure her opponent will never get up – she should have become a chevalier. Even if she hated cheese.

 

 

The days drag on like that for weeks after, and the lack of a letter from Ferelden eats at her, threatening to engulf her whole as she trudges through the shallow streams that lead to the waking sea. She tucks herself away into small caverns not dark enough for spiders to reside in and prays that when she wakes the familiar noise of her father's crow will be there to ease her worries. The nightmares aren't bad that night, the odd ray of sunlight peeking through dense dark _heavy_ clouds shine a light on the steel of a warrior's sword as its raised into the air in a war cry, the screams for the maker to save them taking their last breath before the archdemon comes. She's a spectator, it has always been that way, for her she follows the blood of those who she knows she should call family – but they're _enemies_. She follows the hoard. Their blood is in her veins now, and as a faithful one she must follow the rest of her kin.

 

The crow isn't there when she wakes, a thin veil of sweat cast over her forehead and she wants to cry, the worry that her deepest fears have come true swallow her whole and the sun is high in the sky when she finally makes it out from her nook in between stones. The rain beats down upon the back of her neck, leaving it numb, the cold working its way up her arms from her fingertips but she knows that she's already too frozen in there for it to make a difference. Her armour clinks in the wrong places and as she steps into a puddle hidden by the long grass, the ice cold water that had lay still since the last thing came in passing seeps into her boots from a tear she'd caught trying to get down a small cliff face earlier in the week. Gloved knuckles land a blow to an unmoving tree and she hisses at the pain but keeps hitting. She could pretend that the world wasn't falling out from under her at the thought of her father dying in Ferelden, she could _pretend_ that the crow had been shot down by some noble brat citing it as archery training, she could even pretend that she'd just missed the bird entirely – but she couldn't pretend that she didn't know he was dead.


	2. the maker;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were her family in the darkest of times and they were her friends in light of day when the sun shone through the green, green leaves on the trees and laughter seemed to lift the task they had ahead of them. There was no one, now, was there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i spend three and a half hours writing this for 16 notes? 
> 
>  
> 
> no.

There's the frenzied chatter of an unknown crow tapping at the glazed window of the inn she'd managed to get a room in, her journeys on the coast of the Free Marches having just about ended as the winter rolled in, the downpour getting too heavy for the rocky outcrop to be habitable for any species. Her bare feet press against the strangely soothing wooden floor as she pads over to open the small latch to take the scroll attached to its hind leg, her finger reaching up to give it a gentle ruffle under its chin before it flies away, affinity with birds, she can remember the old warden who sent letters to Weisshaupt from Denerim saying. She can remember the day he was no longer in his chair, too. Another one whom she tries to convince herself rests in peace, side by side with the maker – but her delusions of heaven never last for long.

 

The paper is thick as she unfolds it and the circle's seal stands out, her fingers tracing the long-set wax before her eyes grace the words written below. Its signed by Grand Enchanter Fiona and her lips purse as she wanders backwards to sit upon the worn bed, one of the few pieces of furniture in the small room, but she knows small town folk did as they could and a bed standing on four legs was a lot better than the cold ground of a damp cave. The Grand Enchanter writes of the state of Ferelden, and the battle at Ostagar, the loss of the king, how Teryn Loghain had declared himself regent – she writes about the loss of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and hot tears blur Noelle's vision before she can read on.

They drip down her face at a rapid rate, the letter strewn aside for fear of her tears smudging the ink, even though she knew there was probably a preservation enchantment on it. They were people she knew, people she _loved_. They were her family in the darkest of times and they were her friends in light of day when the sun shone through the green, green leaves on the trees and laughter seemed to lift the task they had ahead of them. There was no one, now, was there? Her arms wrap around herself and she pulls her knees to her chest, her sobs silent but deafening as she struggles to breathe through them. The Blight will take her home, and spread to Orlais. The wardens there will quench the flame and become the victors of the Fifth Blight and the people who never saw it coming will be forgotten. Such a loss, they'll say. Scholars ages from now will record the battle of Ostagar as the fall of a kingdom, the fall of the Theirins, the loss of Redcliffe and Highever – will they even remember the names of the villages and cities that people called home? Will they even remember the wardens who had no chance?

 

Her fingers seek out the letter, later, hands still shaking from grief but her tears having since dried up, dry heaving between sobs doing nothing but harbouring a cough that rattles through her chest. 'Some say the Teryn retreated out of spite, some say he never intended to battle at all, letting the beacon be lit by two newly recruited Grey Wardens before pulling back. The Teryn himself says there was no hope, that King Cailan should never have confronted the hoard in the first place. Loghain despises the Grey Wardens, Noelle. Spite does not seem out of character for him, child. No one knows of the two in the tower, but Ostagar is behind darkspawn lines, now, and I fear that Ferelden will not be saved from their incessant wrath.'

What were their names? Her voice nearly pipes up before she remembers she is alone, that her eyes are wet from her family's death, from her home being ravaged by creatures of the deep, from never getting to whisper goodbye to a father that she loves so. Her thoughts stray to the people who loved those recruits, if they had any left, if they were conscripted or joined out of need to _be_ someone, do something but not for the glory. She wonders how _young_ they were, children like her that were still children in mindset, not hardened for the world, never mind battle or death. If they saw it coming... Maker, she prays they didn't.

 

Then again, what use was praying, anymore? The Maker takes what he wants and he never gives back, never forgives – they served him, they were _faithful_ and just, sang hymns and preached his words but.. there is nothing. Hell happens to the best of men, and he prays for the Maker to come to his side, to help him get through, live long enough to see the light but he dies, bloody and terrified, naked as the day he was born. Makes you think. Makes you wonder if all that the Chantry speaks are just lies to give themselves power in the hearts of lonely peasants who seek nothing more than hope.

Part of her wants to hope that heaven is a homely place, where the sun shines indefinitely through lazy foliage and the haze of a summer's morning is infinite. That everyone is happy and they can't witness the horrors going on below. They can't see the fear of life embedded in a child's eyes as their existence is threatened, nor the blood running down worn pathways where the darkspawn have tread upon, they can't see the pretender on the throne sprouting lies of the battle where most of them died. She hopes her father is with her mother, wherever she may have perished. She wants her family to be happy, to not remember the circumstances in which they died. She doesn't want her father to look upon her now and know the broken shell that was once his beloved daughter, she doesn't want him to know that she can't deal with the fact that she could never say goodbye. Noelle wants to pretend that he was _here_ and not a corpse stripped of his armour on a battlefield of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll missing out tbh

**Author's Note:**

> honestly ive never looked at a piece of writing and went 'how the actual fuck' before. 
> 
> wARDEN BABIES ARE REAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.


End file.
